I didn’t often pull out the pointe shoes at Smithie’s. If it didn’t work for the routines—which were meant to be provocative, titillating, not a showcase of dancing talent, so they didn’t often work—I didn’t try to fit them in.

But there was something gloriously suggestive in adding the grace of being en pointe with the hard chords and blatant invitation of that song.

I couldn’t run away en pointe.

So if you wanted to touch, all you had to do was reach out, and I couldn’t get away.

You had me.

But genius?

“Thanks,” I repeated, my voice funny.

His gaze came to me.

“What?” he asked.

“What what?” I asked back.

“What’s with the voice?”

It wasn’t like he was deaf, though it was coming clear he wasn’t one to let things slide.

“Just…” I tipped my head to the side, “genius?”

“You think I’m full of shit?” he asked bluntly.

Nope, definitely not one to let things slide.

“No,” I answered. “I think you want me to feel good about myself.”

“And you think I’d do that by feeding you a line?”

I studied him closely.

He didn’t seem mad.

He seemed inquisitive.

“I…don’t know,” I told him honestly.

“Okay…” he began.

He then tossed the last bite of his croissant on the plate and focused on me.

Or focused entirely on me.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he stated.

“All right,” I replied.

“Also,” he went on, “I’m aware I’m not gonna fix all your father broke down in you by blowing sunshine up your ass.”

Oh boy.

“Okay,” I said.

“Which brings us to talking about your dad.”

Ugh.

“Can we just…not?” I requested.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re having a perfect Sunday morning.”

His expression warmed with that.

But sadly, that warmth did not mean I was off the hook.

“Okay, honey, then when? In the mornings, I’m out of the house before you. I come home to have some dinner with you, and there’s not time to do much more. And regardless, it wouldn’t be great to get into the heavy with you right before you have to work.”

This was a valid point.

“You didn’t go to your dad last night,” he noted.

No, I didn’t.

“I texted him at lunch,” I told him. “After the, uh…sitch at the bridal shop, and, well, the state I was in, I thought it was best to concentrate on you.”

He grinned.

It was a nice grin.

It was a hot grin.

Then he asked, “And how’d he handle that?”

“He didn’t reply.”

Which meant he was ticked.

Further, that meant I’d catch it the next time I saw him.

I didn’t share that last part with Axl.

Then again, I might not catch it, since apparently Axl was coming with me to Dad’s when I went.

“And tonight?” Axl pressed.

Bluh.

I totally didn’t want Dad encroaching on my Sunday with Axl, not this conversation, not having to leave the house to make him dinner.